Priceless
by Samantha Ryan 27
Summary: A slash fanfic with Methos and an OFC. A little violence, angst, magic, mysticism and death. A snapshot of Methos' past from the Middle Ages wherein Methos travels with a Templar hopeful after the big purge.


_**Germany, 1307 AD**_  
"Are you absolutely _certain _that your vows prohibit riding a horse?" Methos asked his companion with a groan as he leaned back against a small boulder and slid his boot off his aching foot.

Darkness drew velvet curtains around the two men while a small, crackling fire cast grotesque shadows onto the trees that spread sheltering branches over the clearing. The tantalizing, smoky scent of burning wood wafted in the air on the soft, early summer breeze, mingling with the fresh, clean smell of growing things in the forest.

"Entirely so." A slight young man replied agreeably, briskly rubbing down the scruffy hide of their mule with efficient, work roughened hands. "I made a vow before God to accept poverty and suffering, and I am determined to persevere."

Methos paused in the midst of massaging his foot and regarded the brown robed figure with a slow, sharp edged smile. "Is that so, Galen?"

Galen scowled over his shoulder. "Do behave, will you?"

Methos snickered and turned his attention to his other foot. When he had finished, he stood to check the results of his efforts. Still attached was about the best that could be said. He flexed his toes, enjoying the new freedom and the sensation of the cool, slightly damp earth on his overheated skin.

"You've gotten soft, Nicolas." Galen gently taunted. "This journey will be good for you."

Methos loosened the laces at his throat and stripped his dark green surcoat in a smooth motion. "Soft, am I?"

Galen grinned, momentarily unrepentant then faltered, flushing under Metho's intense scrutiny. He dropped his gaze and picked at a loose thread on the voluminous black wool monk's habit wrapped nearly twice around his slim body. Methos marveled anew at the unusual combination of contradictions bundled into that lean frame. That the young mortal could still feel modesty after serving nearly ten years as a whore both amazed and delighted him.

Satisfied with the reaction his words had sparked, Methos abandoned the usually rewarding sport of Galen baiting for the moment and settled himself on the ground. He pressed his back against the boulder gasping at the feel of cold stone against his overheated skin, and allowed himself a disgruntled sigh. "Tell me again why we are traipsing through this God forsaken country?"

We are in Germany. They are Christian." Galen protested without much conviction.

"So are the French but after this year, I wouldn't qualify either as civilized," Methos scoffed, shivering with pleasure at the feel of his sweat soaked white shirt pressed against his body by the light summer breeze. "Christianity is not the only measure of civilization."

Galen shrugged, letting the inflammatory statement pass unnoted. "I have business in Scotland," he temporized. "You know that. You also know that I cannot say any more about it."  
Methos exhaled an impatient hiss. "Of course. You and your precious *Templars*," he sneered.  
Galen reacted as though he'd been whipped, spinning away from the fire with the skewered rabbit carcass he was preparing for dinner pointed at the Immortal like a sword. "Don't ever use that name again, Nicolas. Not ever." Galen's dark blue eyes burned with the savage intensity of anguished loss.

Methos narrowed his gaze around a feral grimace. "Is that a threat?"

"A threat?" Galen flinched in surprise. "No, no threat. Just common sense I would think." He shrugged, his face still thoughtful and shadowed, then suddenly, his body relaxed and the darkness drained from his face. With a rueful shake of his head, he smiled an apology and return to work on the rabbit. "I've no wish to fight with you, Nicolas. You know how dangerous it is to utter that name in these times and I certainly do not relish facing the holy Church on charges of heresy, do you?"

"Then bury their damned things and come away with me. I've some money set aside..." Methos closed his eyes, unable to stop the treacherous words from spilling out. Dammit! As if he didn't already know the answer...he let the words trail off into bitter silence at Galen's frown and the quick, negative movement of his head.

Baissez! Galen and his wretched illusions...Somehow, the foolish child acquired the mistaken belief that the Templars were pure and worthy of devotion, a conviction Methos had, thus far, been unable to correct. Galen insisted on carrying out the task he had been charged with, in spite of - or perhaps because of - the fact that the French king, Phillipe le Bel, recently arrested as many of the Templars as he could get his hands on. Of itself, that reality meant nothing except that Galen ostensibly was free of the Church and any vows he might have made to them, free to live a real life. Instead, the stubborn infant was determined to journey to Scotland on the orders of the Grand Master himself, his deepest loyalty reserved for a man who would likely be dead before the year ended.

Methos swallowed around a lump of bitterness at the subtle betrayal, aware that Galen would not define it so, and yet, Galen did owe the Templars something for the time before Methos. Would he still love the boy as deeply were he not so loyal, Methos wondered, and the thought curled helplessly around the wistful ache in his chest.

"You're not one of them," he observed with conscious cruelty, aware just how deep the thrust would land. "You never were."

Galen went still. "I was in all but name." He whispered and the sharp slivers of pain in his voice pierced Methos' heart with an anguish that should not have belonged to him.

Christ, why couldn't he just leave it alone? He wanted stop this pointless dialogue and regain his distance, but could not seem to prevent the hateful, sardonic words from spilling out. "Yes, but isn't the *name* a rather important part of the process?"

Galen sucked in a sharp breath then exhaled with deliberate slowness. "What is it this time, Nicolas? Why are you being such a plentyn gordderch tonight?"

"Oh I don't know. Perhaps being dragged across twenty miles of desperately boring countryside on foot turned me into a bastard." Methos suggested, grappling for distance. It required an enormous effort to return the roiling emotions that were pushing him to lash out with such unusual fervor to their usual prison. "Your problem is that you've taken your disguise much too seriously. How many monks have you met who have actually held to their vows - including your precious Templars."

Galen bridled. "I did not ask you to come with me. You are free to return to Rocamadour or to go anywhere else you like. *You* are bound by nothing."

"Is that so?" Methos murmured, lanced with a sudden stray bolt of pain, the words wrapped in an enigmatic irony. He should be infinitely grateful at this point, on his knees giving gratitude to any god he still believed in, for the fact that Galen truthfully had no idea how very bound Methos was. Indeed...but if that were so, then why was he sitting here struggling to draw breath, his chest a raw open wound? He should be congratulating himself on his success at hiding his inner self instead of allowing a casual word to injure him so.  
He took refuge in the familiar flare of passion sparked by proximity to his lover, trailing a heated gaze over the slender body, well concealed by the roughly woven habit belted carelessly around lean hips with a twisted length of rope. The bulky fabric masked long, lean muscles and scarred, dusky skin, skin that was as familiar as Methos' own and that he suddenly needed to touch almost more than he needed his next breath.

He made no move to satisfy the craving, as yet unwilling to relinquish the bittersweet enjoyment of anticipation to the spiraling desire pulsing through his veins. Soft, mellow firelight glinted off the silky golden strands of Galen's too long hair, the enticing aroma of roasting rabbit drifting on the thin, acrid column of smoke from the fire. Head bent, Galen caught his lower lip between strong, white teeth, attention wholly focused on the task of mixing a measure of flour with water, his movements smooth and economical. Methos rested his head against the ungiving surface of the boulder, eyes still fastened on the young mortal, and deliberately slowed his breath, conscious of the intense heat rising within his body.

Galen had changed so little in the three years since their chance meeting at an inn in Angers, in either form or temperament. Methos smiled involuntarily, recalling the day his path had crossed Galen's with an odd clarity. Had he still believed in a universe ruled by fate, Methos might have accepted that he had been sent to that place solely to meet the charming imp.

He met the twenty-one year old mortal two years ago at an inn in Angers. Galen mac Cormiac was travelling with three Templars as a servant. Had he subscribed to a universe ruled by fate, Methos might have believed he had been sent to that place solely to meet the charming imp. As a minstrel, bard and historian, he welcomed the opportunity to observe the heroic Knights first hand, especially as they rarely had contact with those outside their Order - unless it was to kill them. Thus far, Methos had not been on the receiving end of the Templar's wrath and he really had no intention of beginning now.

He invited them to share his table in the crowded tap room. Galen had been seeing to the horses and Methos felt an electric tingle surge through him the moment the young, golden haired man came in the room. He carried himself with a self-assurance far beyond his years, his devotion to the men he served quiet but evident. Methos learned later that Galen was born in Wales and had been abducted and sold as a slave when he was six years old. By the time he was seven, he laughingly called himself a proficient, willing whore. He had been slow to learn that being willing was much less painful than struggling. It took him a whole year to determine he would gain nothing by continuing to fight his fate, so he had bent avidly to his task and learned the most exquisite ways to please a man.

Methos ached at the knowledge. Certainly whatever Galen had suffered as a slave was no more than what he himself had endured, sometimes for centuries. It was, however, a different thing for him to withstand torture, a whole other thing to hold the knowledge that someone he cared about had experienced it also.

Galen had been fourteen when Galeas Salazar liberated him from his master and freed him to return to Wales. Having spent most of his childhood in captivity, he did not really know how to live on his own - and he felt he owed Salazar a great debt of gratitude so he stayed with the Templars. Although he lacked the necessary training to ever become a Knight, by the time Methos met him, Galen had become a novice and still hoped to join the Order.

Even now, Methos marveled at the good fortune granted him in attracting the exuberant young man's attention. In spite of his childhood trauma, Galen had been immediately enthralled with Nicolas de Vallincourt, Methos current incarnation. It might have ended after one night, but then Salazar's horse fell ill and he and his retinue were forced to stay on for nearly a month. By the end of the month, Methos had no intention of losing Galen. And so, he had followed them back to Rocamadour, with Galen's weak protests and warm body for company whenever the novice could slip away from the Templar camp to spend the dark hours with his lover.

The past year had been hard on both of them, more so for Galen though. He had just had his family ripped away from him again, in a far more brutal fashion than before. All of this, combined with the arrest of most of the rest of the Templars had somehow led to Galen travelling with all haste out of France, disguised as a Benedictine monk. That he was accompanied by Methos was due only to the immortal's refusal to be left behind. It might be funny, this role reversal, if it wasn't so maddening. Usually it was Methos doing the disappearing, not the chasing.

"Galen," he said softly, desire singing through his veins. Just that one word was all he could manage, one word full of heat, promise and passion.

The young man glanced up, the fire glinting off the gold of the large Celtic cross he was absently toying with. His hands abruptly stilling as he stared back at Methos, with stormy dark eyes.  
"Nicolas?" The husky voice wavered, so achingly young.

Methos pushed away from the rock and stood in a single, lithe motion, his body heavy and tight with hunger as he stalked his prey. Galen met the challenge in his predatory gaze directly but Methos saw how his hands trembled as the gold cross slid to the ground and it brought a tight smile to his face. He stopped inches from the younger man, so close he could feel the heat radiating from the slender body. Galen stood at least four inches shorter than Methos and was some two stone lighter, but the old immortal could feel the leashed strength vibrating in the tense body in front of him.

"Will you..." Methos let the question trail off unasked while he lifted his own trembling fingers to sift through the short, silky, golden strands that covered Galen's head. The head fell back heavily and he moaned softly as he leaned into the caress.

"Yes..." Galen hissed, reaching up to pull Methos' head down to him.

Methos felt his breath hitch in his chest, the flood of relief something of a surprise. He hadn't been sure, he was never sure, but he rarely acknowledged the depth of his need for the young man, and it always caught him off guard. Every time these past two years with Galen had been a revelation and a gift, both because of the overwhelming power of their union and because Methos never knew when Galen's prior vows would take precedence over his body's demands. This time, though, this time Galen was his. Satisfaction rippled through him at the small victory.

Methos allowed Galen to guide his progress as he focused on the sensitive, mobile lips, anticipation a living force clawing at his abdomen. "Galen..." He whispered a second before his mouth claimed its prize and the heat flared out of control between them.

Methos swept his tongue insistently over the closed lips in a desperate demand for entrance, a broken sigh escaping as he gained access to the dark, sweet depths. He felt Galen's hands drop from his neck to clutch his shoulders with a searing, sliding caress, the movement generating tremors all the way to his toes. Hauling Galen's slim hips to him, Methos groaned both at the sudden pressure against his solid erection and the feel of Galen's rigid flesh against him. He anchored the golden head, in savage possession of the soft mouth. Galen responded with wild passion, arching against Methos and using his own tongue to explore and conquer. Methos was vanquished with a single, bold stroke.

Wrenching free from the scalding contact, Methos ducked his head and buried his face in Galen's neck. Triumph flared briefly as a gasp tore from the young man, his body writhing helplessly at the lazy swipe of the immortal's tongue.

"Please, Nicolas." Galen gasped.

Methos moved his lips to the perfectly formed ear, nipping lightly at the tender flesh. "Please what?"

Galen shuddered hard. "Please, * _touch _* me."

Methos dropped his hands to the rope belt and fumbled with the knot. "Oh yes, Galen. I'll touch you...everywhere," he murmured with dark promise.

Velvety summer air caressed Methos' bare flesh as Galen convulsively clutched at his white linen shirt and pulled it free from the loose, black wool knee breeches. The immortal dropped the loosened rope and hauled the heavy habit up, reluctantly releasing his lover for the brief moment required to free him from the scratchy, suffocating fabric. "You wear too many clothes," Galen complained with a gasp.

Methos tried to smile, but his face felt too tight. He drew a reverent, feather light touch over the powerfully muscled chest, across the individually distinct ridged sinews of the abdomen, and down corded thighs, and rocked back to survey the sleek, naked body now revealed to him. Clad as a Benedictine monk, Galen wore the black habit accompanied by nothing else. Methos, on the other hand, still wore a linen shirt, wool knee-breeches and hose. He had discarded his surcoat upon making camp, but the rest of his clothing, layers upon layers that separated his skin from that of his lover, were maddening. He could not decide which he wanted more - to touch Galen or feel their naked bodies pressed together.

His gaze caught on Galen's rigid cock nestled in a thatch of coarse golden hair, extending straight out from his lean muscled body, and liquid heat pounded through his veins. He leaned forward, now certain he would go mad if he didn't touch Galen immediately. His ass ached to be filled, his tongue tingled with the need to taste his lover in his mouth, and his own erect flesh throbbed with the need to be stroked.

"Nicolas...wait." Galen pushed futilely against Methos' shoulders, only half-coherent. An agonized moan cut off the rest of his objection as Methos retracted the foreskin just far enough to uncover the weeping tip of Galen's cock and swiped his tongue delicately across a particularly sensitive spot about two inches back from the slit. /Oh yes, that works every time,/ he thought with dark satisfaction, feeling Galen's hips jerk convulsively. Taking just the exposed head into his mouth, he licked the slick pre-come away and shivered at the exquisite flavor. He trailed his fingers back across the entire shaft, following the path of their retreat with his mouth until the whole rod was sheathed in his relaxed throat and he held the delicate, velvety balls in his hand.

Galen loosed a keening wail that ripped down Methos' spine and wrapped around his throbbing cock like a warm caress. The young mortal bent forward, his hands braced on Methos' shoulders for support as he flexed his hips involuntarily. /Too close./ Methos realized belatedly that Galen was too close to the edge to tease. He tasted so good though that Methos wasn't sure he could let go. Rough, trembling fingers threaded through the hair on his neck, following the heated, incoherent words of encouragement spilling from Galen's lips.

"Yes...oh yes. Please, Nicolas...like that...ah, God...that's it..."

Gently, Methos pulled his mouth away, soothing the loss with his hands. He held the narrow hips steady with one hand and stared up into dazed, dark blue eyes, trying to remember what he wanted to say. Galen thrust once into the cradling palm, tossing his head with frustration then dropped to his knees beside Methos, his restless hands immediately moving to jerk the linen shirt off.

"Galen..." Methos tried hoarsely. "I want you."

The mortal nodded, distractedly.

"No, inside me. I want you inside me, now."

A sharp hiss, a hard shudder, a whispered curse, then Galen sank his teeth into Methos' shoulder.

_God's blood _you're too much, Nicolas," Galen whispered, his lips trailing fire to Methos' neck while clumsy fingers busily worked at the tie on the wool breeches. "I'm going to spill my seed right here without you."

Methos tried to help free himself, but Galen swatted his hands away.

"Leave off. If you try to help, we'll be all night at this and I do not wish to wait that long. For the love of God, why do you wear these wretched things?"

The tangled knot gave and Methos felt his pants sliding down his legs to the ground with an enormous sense of relief. /Finally./

He shifted, trying to kick the restricting garments loose but the knees were still fastened and he fell back with a virulent curse.

"Patience," Galen laughed softly. A single jerk was all it took to release the ties. Methos flinched away from the melting sensation that followed the hands as they released him from the remainder of his clothes, layer by excruciating layer; knee-breeches, hose, undergarments.

"Christ, Galen!" He howled. His entire body arched off the ground from neck to heel as his cock was engulfed without preamble in liquid flames. An edge of pain flared, following sharp teeth up across the rigid shaft.

"No need to take the Lord's name in vain," Galen admonished lightly.

"Please!" Methos begged, hands scrabbling uselessly at the hard packed dirt beneath him. "Please..."

He felt Galen move away, heard the deep, shaky breath hiss inward and pushed himself up on his elbows in time to see his lover rummaging through a bag. "How do you want this?" The mortal asked raggedly, pouring the precious oil into his palm and coating his cock with quick, economical motions.

"I want to taste you."

Galen groaned, reduced to his native Welsh. "Myn Dwu. You are truly going to kill me, Nicolas." He pressed Methos' knees apart knelt between his spread legs.

"No need to take the Lord's name in vain," Methos gritted throwing his head back as he ground his hips back into the probing fingers that slid easily into his ass. "Ah - so _good _. Galen, please."

Galen grunted and shifted forward, replacing his fingers with his erection. Methos bucked up, trying to impale himself on the hard shaft, whimpering in disappointment as it slid down between his buttocks. Galen laughed softly, tightly and repositioned himself.

"Amynedd."

"Patience? A pox on patience. Come to me _now _."

Slowly, ever so slowly, Galen filled him full, beyond full, and the relief was so sweet, so achingly, agonizingly precious that Methos caught his breath on a sob. With a hard shudder as he sheathed himself completely, the young mortal paused for a moment, panting, then withdrew and began stroking with a deep urgency. Methos met each thrust eagerly, his own hard flesh gliding between their sweat slick bodies.

It took maybe ten strokes. Ten, hot, wet, sliding caresses against the firm stomach and Methos spilled his essence between them. Galen groaned, captured his mouth in a rapacious kiss and thrust harder into the receptive channel. Methos swallowed the sharp cry of satisfaction Galen gave as he stiffened, shuddered, and poured himself out deep inside Methos' body.

They lay next to the fire for a long time, bodies stuck together by Methos' semen. He stroked the sleek skin gently, entirely content to remain pinned to the ground until the meat began charring. Galen sighed and began to stir. He rose and rescued their burning dinner, casting a sly, sidelong glance at the man still lying on the ground. With exaggerated care, Galen dipped his finger in the mingled sweat and semen that coated his chest and licked it clean. Methos grinned as his tired cock twitched in response. He watched the fluid motions hungrily, wondering if he could talk his lover into another round, but the imp in the dark blue eyes vanished abruptly, like a door slamming shut. Galen must have remembered his thrice-damned duty, a duty that did not include rolling around on the ground with another man.

"Not bad, _monk _." Methos needled, calling on all four thousand plus years of experience to pull back behind an impenetrable wall. "A bit short on stamina though, aren't you?"

Galen glanced over impassively, eyes dark with shadows. "You got what you wanted," he observed, swiping at his sticky chest and belly with a linen cloth.

"And you didn't?" Methos inquired with amusement.

"Does it matter?" Galen countered, voice muffled as he pulled the habit back over his head.  
Methos rolled to his side still unashamedly naked and propped his head on his hand. "Well, generally speaking what you want does matter to me." He drawled lazily. "It has always seemed to work out better that way with my lovers."

Galen winced and hesitated for a split second, the pause in his movements so slight that Methos could easily have missed it had he not been watching. It was, all in all, a rather hollow victory. Still, he continued to speak, driven by some compelling urge.

"It doesn't always matter, mind you, but most of the time. Remember when the bishop arrived unexpectedly for a visit and you came to tell me you wouldn't be able to return until he left?"

Color flared in the novice's cheeks at the memory.

"Ah, I see you *do* remember. You begged me not to -"

"Fine. You've made your point," Galen snapped savagely.

"Good." Methos smiled with dark satisfaction. "Now that we've cleared that up, would you like to tell me what it is that has you so irritable? Perhaps you would like to go again? With me on top this time?"

A long silence spun out before Galen responded in a low, reflective tone. "They warned me about you, minstrel. Did you know that? They warned me, told me to stay away from you. They told me that I was paving my own path to hell, one wretched night at a time."

"And? You just rediscovered guilt?" Methos rolled his eyes theatrically as he sat up, ignoring the flare of pain the words ignited. "Please, spare me the torments of an overactive conscience. I hope you aren't expecting company in purgatory."

"Not yours, that is certain," Galen retorted bitterly. "Someone has to have a conscience, you know. It makes up for those like you who have none."

"Oh yes, I'm sure you are right. God forbid anyone should be happy. Has it ever occurred to you that your precious Church is full of the worst hypocritical liars that ever lived?"

"Is there nothing you believe in? Does nothing give you comfort?"

"Comfort? You want to know what comforts me?" Methos asked as he stood in a single, sinuous motion, his tone shadowed with danger.

"No," Galen hissed. "I don't want to know what comforts you."

"You asked..." Methos murmured, moving into Galen's space with a predatory step, surprised when the younger man gave no ground.

"I *asked* if such a thing existed. I *didn't* ask what it was." Jaw set, Galen tilted his head back, allowing their eyes to meet, anger flaring as rough hands closed around his arms. "Let go of me, Nicolas."

Methos shook his head and smiled grimly, feeling the play of muscle under his hands as he dug his fingers into Galen's upper arms. "I don't think so," he murmured and lowered his head deliberately. Something critical shifted behind the dark blue gaze seconds before Methos felt Galen's dagger pressing into his throat.

"Let go, Nicolas."

With a soft laugh, Methos swiped his tongue lightly over the tightly compressed lips and stepped back, hands lifted in surrender. "Such claws..."

"Don't patronize me," Galen spat, his blade flashing in the firelight. "Gods blood, you are such a bastard! Why in the name of all that's holy did I not leave you behind?"

"Because I wouldn't let you?" Methos suggested, his eyes dark with barely concealed excitement. Still naked, he could not hide his body's arousal but Galen wasn't looking at his body.

Lazily, he crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for the right opening. An instant later, the knife dipped and Methos pounced. He knocked the dagger up out of the way then twisted Galen's wrist until he cried out and dropped the blade. Simultaneously, Methos hooked his arm around the other man's slender waist and hauled his body close. His cock leaped at the familiar pressure of Galen's form sliding against it and he barely suppressed a groan. "Maybe you keep me around because you like my body."

Tension radiated from the young man's taut muscles and he quivered as Methos ran his tongue around the tender curve of his ear. With a faint sigh, Galen softened and leaned into the embrace, working his hand between their bodies to stroke Methos' rigid flesh. The immortal automatically loosened his punishing hold to allow Galen to drop to his knees in front of him. As clever, skillful hands stroked him, Methos realized vaguely that there was something different in his lover's touch, something missing. He pulled away with a wrenching sense of loss and took a step back. The golden head remained bent.

"What is wrong?" Galen asked emotionlessly. "Did I not please you?"

A chill touched Methos' spine. Ah, the prostitute emerged. Merde. Casually, he reached for his pants and slipped the dusty wool over his hips with quick, savage movements. "If I wanted a whore, Galen, I would buy myself a whore."

"Oh really?" Galen cocked his head quizzically. "Excuse me if I have trouble believing that since you have been treating me as one."

Methos sliced a hunk of meat from the charred rabbit carcass, took a bite, and chewed slowly. "What do you want from me?" He finally asked when he could be certain his voice would be completely devoid of emotion.  
"What do I want from you..." Galen repeated slowly, shifting his weight back to his heels.

"Nothing. I want nothing from you. I have asked for nothing from you. Did I not tell you from the beginning not to come with me? Did I not remind you that this is not your battle? And still you wouldn't listen. You know you shouldn't be here - you should be in some grand castle earning favors from great lords and ladies, eating exotic foods, drinking good wine...But I suppose the worst of it is that you act like I am a child with no concept of what I am doing. You patronize me and tease me and push me away...do you know that I love you, Nicolas? Do you know what I would do for you?" He paused, his gaze steady and clear. "Do you know what I have already done for you?"

Methos tossed the half-stripped bone into the fire, scarcely able to breathe past the lump in his throat. Panic and tension knotted in his belly, lending his words a more cruel twist than he had intended. "You don't know me well enough to love me." While it was difficult to credit that Galen might love selfish, cruel Nicolas de Vallincourt, it was beyond imagination to think he might somehow love Methos, of a thousand faces.

Galen laughed. He actually laughed. Stunned, Methos half turned, arms crossed defensively over his chest. "Oh, Nicolas...it's all right. I am not asking anything of you. Just bear witness and remember."

Methos wanted to say something, anything, but there seemed nothing left to say. His eyes burned with the unspoken. "Cariad..." Methos whispered, face shadowed. "Does nothing frighten you?"

"Not you. Never you." Galen's soft voice vibrated with certainty so powerful, Methos felt his knees weaken. He dropped to the ground and pulled the novice into his arms. The young mortal pushed closer, running his hot hands over the exposed ivory flesh of Methos' lean muscled back. The Immortal tensed and sucked in his breath sharply.

"Then you are a fool."

Galen tilted his head back, lips parted in a silent, pleading request. Methos dipped down to claim the hot, wet offering, his arms tightening involuntarily as Galen responded and their tongues mated strongly. Every touch felt like the first, each kiss a fiery brand. Half-spoken words breathed onto heated flesh were broken off and consumed by the flaring passion that carried them beyond the darkness, beyond consciousness, beyond themselves.

Dawn stole over the horizon, gray and black, roiling with storm clouds. Methos knew as soon as he woke that he was alone and he wondered idly why he was surprised. The cold, empty space at his back sank deep into his heart with each ragged breath, the air rushing painfully into his lungs. Well, he could certainly survive this...he had survived worse, hadn't he?

He broke camp efficiently, more quickly than usual since Galen had taken the mule with him and that left less to do. Rain had begun to fall in soft waves before he had traversed half the distance to the next town. Wet, emotionally raw and grimly uncomfortable, Methos was in a very bad temper. He would have turned around and headed back to France had it not been closer to the town ahead than the one behind. That he was making backward progress on his new journey set him in an even worse temper.

Methos would likely have missed the dark form huddled in the mud by the side of the road had it not been for the mule. The stubborn, stupid mule stood in the middle of the road, looking for all the world like he was just waiting for Methos to come along and take the situation in hand. Methos stared at the animal then glanced around for Galen. The novice would never leave the animal untended this way, with thieves and vagabonds everywhere. His gaze finally fell on the crumpled black spot that nearly blended in with the soggy earth.

"Galen?" He breathed, stunned. The form remained motionless. Methos knelt, heedless of the wet muck soaking his pants, and lifted Galen gently into his arms. Cool drops of rain washed the mud from the smooth young face, revealing pale skin, burning with fever and sprinkled with black spots. Methos felt his stomach clench and suddenly rebel. He retched and vomited but it did nothing to erase either the reality of Galen's impending death from the Black Plague or his own raging grief.

When he had regained control of himself, Methos gathered Galen in his arms and tugged on the mule's lead. By nightfall, he had secured a room in an inn for himself and the ill mortal. Galen had not yet regained consciousness. He alternately shivered and sweated, crying out in the delirium of his fever. Methos stripped the wet clothes off them both and crawled into bed with the feverish man, holding him as close as possible. His mere presence seemed to calm Galen tremendously, and the few Gaelic words Methos remembered lulled him into a deep, healing sleep.

The next day, however, it became apparent that the disease was more in possession of Galen's body than he was. Methos held him through shivers, wiped his brow through fever, held his head while he vomited and brought him food and water. Galen watched him with desperate, fever bright eyes.

"Are you never going to ask?"

"Ask what?" Methos murmured.

"Why I left you."

Methos lifted a shoulder carelessly. "It doesn't matter."

"It does. You think - "

"Don't tell me what I think, cariad. It doesn't matter." Methos pressed gentle fingers over his mouth when it appeared that Galen might protest further. "No more. Sleep."

The novice shook his head, worry darkening his eyes. Methos sighed and removed his hand. "I had to - I wanted to get my things to my brothers so they could complete my journey. Will you do that for me? After I die, will you take my things to my brothers and tell them everything must go to Ballontrodoch?"

A hard, cold lump coalesced in Methos' stomach and he nodded remotely. "Of course. I will take your things to Scotland myself, if you wish. I would rather you came with me, though."

"No. I cannot ask that of you. We both know I am dying and it is only the sheerest luck that you have had the Death yourself. It is enough to get them to the Templars. You have already given me so much..." Galen mumbled as his eyes began to close. Having extracted the necessary promise, his ravaged body no longer had the strength to remain conscious. He finally fell into a labored sleep and Methos ran a gentle hand over his short, sweat soaked hair. It was time. If he did not act now, he would most certainly lose Galen. He might anyway, but he had to try.

Digging into his bag, Methos retrieved a small silver bowl, a leather, drawstring pouch, and a dagger. He took a sip of wine then picked up the dagger and slashed his forearm. Blood pumped out of the deep cut to pool in the silver bowl. Methos watched dispassionately until the liquid reached the appropriate level and lifted his injured arm to suck the excess blood from the healing skin.

Chanting softly so as not to wake Galen, he dug into the leather bag and withdrew a small pinch of leaves to scatter into the bowl of blood. He lifted the silver dish high, still chanting in a low monotone, and swirled the contents gently. Eyes closed, he lowered it to the table, afraid to read the signs of the future, but compelled nonetheless. A soft curse of despair hissed out with his breath. A sacrifice. A damned blood sacrifice...and no ordinary one at that. Well, what had he expected? A life for a life and * _not _* one of his lives. No, this had to be one of their too short, insignificant, don't-blink-or-you'll-miss-it lives, an innocent mortal life, a child or perhaps a nun.

Methos grabbed his goblet and crossed to the window to gaze at the long shadows cast by the late afternoon sun. So be it. He never expected to call on these gods again, never intended to tap into this power, although he supposed that the fact that he still carried the implements around and possessed the dagger told a different story. He had naively hoped that the sacrifice required would entail nothing more than himself, but it wouldn't have mattered if the ancient powers demanded a hundred innocent lives. He had done it before, done worse than this, and would likely do so again. For Galen's life, no price was too high. He returned to the bowl of blood and poured a small amount of oil on top. He lit the flammable liquid as he uttered deep, guttural words of promise and watched it burn. Reflectively, he sipped his wine, and wondered where he might find a child who would not be missed immediately.

A huge fire blazed in the hearth, casting grotesque shadows throughout the dark room and overpowering the soft silvery moonlight that streamed in the window. Bound hand and foot, a naked child lay struggling on a table in front of the roaring blaze surrounded by a series of rune like characters etched on the floor around the makeshift altar. Orange and gold light flickered on Methos' bare, oiled chest as he stood before the altar, intoning deep, powerful words.

He could feel the magic beginning to stir deep in his body, curling around the base of his spine and snaking ever so slowly upwards. _Yesssss _. The hot, vibrating energy spread through his entire body, moving with increasing rapidity until his fingertips felt scorched with the power. Methos dropped his head back and gritted his teeth against the waves pounding through him, as the requisite words of the mantra hissed from his throat. He was grappling for control with the living force he had called forth when he dimly heard Galen's voice. Damn.

"What are you doing?" The voice was thick with sleep and confusion.

Methos struggled harder, trying to step back from the edge, but it was so hard. He bit off a particularly savage Babylonian curse. He had hoped to be done with this by the time Galen woke again, that the healthy color would have returned to his lover's cheeks and that the blood would remain in his body instead of flowing out his mouth and nose to stain the sheets. He had hoped that Galen would never have to know what price had been paid for his life.

"This is a bad time to interrupt me," Methos ground out as fine tremors shivered through his bones.

"But what's going on? What are you doing?" Still confused, no hint of realization in the hoarse words yet.

"Go back to sleep, Galen. This doesn't concern you."

"Nicolas. What. Are. You. Doing." Galen demanded, exasperated. Although weak from the illness, he managed to infuse a solid command in his tone that denied all dissembling.

"Buying your life." Methos said barely above a whisper as his control slipped slightly. The magic force in him snapped savagely upward but he caught hold of it and ruthlessly lowered the intensity until it resided at the base of his spine again, impatiently awaiting freedom.

"Buying my life? With what? What are you talking about?"

The honest bewilderment on Galen's ravaged features sparked a flare of anger in the immortal. He had to know, Methos thought, had to at least suspect. "A life for a life, Templar."

"A life for a life?" Galen repeated softly, still uncomprehending. "What -"

Crossing to the narrow bed, Methos towered over his lover, his face set in harsh lines. "There are other forces in this world that can be called upon, you know," he murmured, brushing limp, sweaty hair out of Galen's eyes with a carelessly tender gesture. "Forces and gods that moved long before people ever began to think about paying homage to your Yahweh. Powers that are far greater than anything you and your fellows ever even dreamed of. A life for a life...I am buying your life with hers." He inclined his head toward the child bound on the altar.

Methos watched the series of expressions run across Galen's face with great interest. Hope, longing, fear, revulsion, despair.../Now you know what I am capable of,/ he thought grimly. /Good. Still think you *love* me?/

"You can't do this." The protest was weak, wavering.

Methos smiled slightly. "Oh but I can." He turned back to the fire and the sacrifice and lifted his ceremonial dagger, point straight up.

"Nicolas, _please _." Stronger now, more despair, more anguish. "Please for the love of God don't do this!"

"For the love of God?" Methos repeated slowly, savage anger swelling in his throat. "I care *nothing* for your God, Galen. Nothing. Who is this God you love so much anyway?" He spat and turned to meet Galen's dark, anguished eyes, stomach lurching madly. The deep blue orbs dominated the wasted face; so much lost in so little time. Rage ripped up, giving Methos the strength to finish. "Who is he to allow a six year old child to be torn from his family, enslaved and repeatedly raped and tortured? Who is this God who allows his faithful servants to be arrested and tortured? Who is this God who would allow you to _die _so cruelly, you who have served him so well? Tell me, Galen. Tell me why I should do anything for the love of _him _?"

Galen's eyes shone with tears. He stretched out a trembling hand toward Methos who stood shaking with wrath. Hissing a soft curse, the immortal dropped to his knees and grasped the offered hand, pressing the cold, brittle flesh to his cheek.

"I love Him because he gave me you. And if I had grown up in Wales with my family, I would never have known you. I would suffer it all again to be with you." Galen opened his fingers and slid his hand across Methos' jaw to tangle in the soft hair at the back of his neck. "Please don't buy my life with the blood of the innocent. I could never live with it."

"Don't ask that of me, Galen." Methos groaned, leaning his head into the tender caress. "You can't ask that of me."

"Ask what? That you let this child live or that you let me die? You have to let me go; it is what I have lived for."

Methos flinched as if he'd been slapped. He pulled away, searching Galen's face with a hard, narrow gaze. "If it is so *good* then why do you look so frightened?"

Galen tried to smile. "Do you not see? It is what we all live for. Of course I am frightened but I am excited as well. Would you deny me the chance to be with God?"

Pain tore through Methos' chest mingling with a surging rage that would not be contained. He shoved away from his lover so violently he was unable to stop himself from sprawling in the middle of the floor. "Is that what you think? That living is only a prelude to dying? Christ Almighty, Galen! How can you *say* that? How can you *believe* it?"

The novice shook his head sorrowfully. "Nicolas...I'm sorry. I forget that you are not like us. If you buy my life this way, you will never be allowed into heaven. All of the good works you could do in ten lifetimes would not make up for it." Galen paused to catch his breath, visibly weakened by the argument. "I love you. I love you so much, Nicolas...I want to stay with you now, but I want us to have eternity together as well. God is calling me home and I must go. Please, help me to be strong. Help me find the courage to face this final test." A smile wobbled on his lips and Methos felt despair welling up in his stomach.

"Galen," he whispered, coming closer to press the novice's hand to his cheek. "How can I let you go when it is in my power to save you?"

The sweaty blond head turned restlessly on the damp, straw pillow. "It is only Satan trying to work through you, Satan tempting us both. You must be strong, Nicolas, for both of us." He coughed hoarsely, and blood spurted from his mouth and nose.

Methos' breath hitched in his chest. /I can't. By the gods, I can't be strong, Galen. You don't know - ah, the things you don't know...Forgive me, but I have to do this.../ He gently disentangled himself from the young mortal's grasp, gripping the hilt of his ceremonial dagger hard enough to transfer the intricate carvings from the hilt to his palm. The metal warmed and pulsed in his hand, remembering and responding to the blood that had been used in forging the blade, the blood that had come from his own body.

"Nicolas," Galen whispered, drawing a deep ragged breath. "It's time. I - it's - ah, I love you."  
Methos spun around letting the dagger fall to the floor with a clatter. "Galen? Galen!" He dropped to his knees and grabbed for a limp hand. "You can't go yet! I - Galen wait! I love you..." the words poured out on a wracking sob. Methos pulled the unresisting body into his arms and shook him gently. "Please don't *die*..."  
One last breath shuddered through the wasted form and Galen was still for all time. Methos trembled with the effort it cost him to keep the torrent of anguished screams locked inside his chest. Too late. He was too goddamned late. Oh Galen...

As Galen had requested, Methos set the child sacrifice free. Ironically, she died along with most of the rest of the town within a month. Methos read about the outbreak a number of years later, suffering a pang of guilt at having been the harbinger of death, but he would have killed them all personally if it would have bought Galen his life. Unfortunately, nothing could buy that, nothing that Galen would have accepted.

Dry eyed and empty, he buried Galen there in his black habit with only his gold cross for comfort, in that soon to be ghost town. The wind riffled through his hair as he knelt by the rich, freshly turned earth, reluctant to leave the young novice here alone. Grasping his dagger in his right hand, he drew the blade across the palm of his left hand and watched as the flow of blood slowly soaked into the already water saturated earth. "A part of me will always belong to you." He whispered. "Rest well, cariad."


End file.
